


Peppermint, Bay, and Rosemary

by MrMundy



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls Online
Genre: Found Family, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Minor Character Death, Minor Violence, Slow Burn, Trans Male Character, Trans Male Fennorian, Vampirism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:27:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24924619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrMundy/pseuds/MrMundy
Summary: It's a simple recipe — crush the herbs, bring them to a boil, drink it, and become who you're meant to be.Except who you're meant to be might be a different person than who you thought you'd be.Fennorian's journey through transition, transformation, and helping his friends save Tamriel from an ancient threat.
Relationships: Fennorian/Original Male Character
Comments: 8
Kudos: 40





	1. Chapter 1

Fennorian is a name chosen by a young self—realising Altmer in a small town in High Rock. The name holds no specific weight, chosen simply for the way the young boy likes the sound of it, the way it flows with his family name. Nobody takes issue with his name changing so drastically; in fact, most say they expected it and try their hardest to accommodate the change. Slip—ups happen and questions are asked, but his mother is polite in the way she corrects others — this is her son, her only child, his name is _Fennorian_. 

For the most part, he’s a quiet boy. He tries not to snoop into things that aren’t his, spends many of his days reading while his mother works in the bank and his father works heavy bolts of fabric and piles of leather. They both do their best to help him out; his father has a design from a client years ago for a man much like Fennorian, an undershirt with laces that tighten in such a way that when he's eventually given it, he stops wearing so many layers and looks a hundred times more confident in himself. 

As he grows, he gains a particular interest in books describing the science of alchemy. Of the intricate magics that work within the confines of individual ingredients, brought out by combining them with the properties of other materials. His first potion is created in his family’s kitchen in a heavy copper pot, a mixture of things he collects based on imagery in his books that he watches boil over a small flame until they combine together into a thick, dark liquid. It smells of burned plants and bitter oils, and the odor remains for days after. He shows the pot to his mother, who sighs and asks him just what the potion was supposed to do.

“Um,” he says, his face flushing, and stares long and hard at the wooden spoon now stained with the colors of various flowers. 

His mother doesn’t get angry with him. So he keeps trying, trying, _trying._

His first _working_ potion is a tiny batch of something he makes at fourteen meant to cure wounds. The most it accomplishes is stopping the bleeding from his neighbor’s finger after she pricks herself with a needle. But it’s such an accomplishment that he dives nose first back into his books, figuring out what he did right and what he did wrong.

Studies continue solely through books, as neither of his parents hold any knowledge in the realm of alchemy. But they encourage him nonetheless, searching for new books that he hasn’t read cover to cover multiple times over. They could find someone to teach him properly, but...

The only true alchemist nearby is an old Bosmer living an hour's walk into the wilds who visits town regularly to deliver their potions and herbs, and their son is a bit young to be running off to such a place regularly. Fennorian meets them and is immediately enthralled with the thought that maybe, just _maybe_ , they could teach him a thing or two. 

When Fennorian turns seventeen, he’s apprenticed to the stern old Bosmer alchemist. 

He begs his mother to let him pursue his interests and she resigns only on the condition that he stays at home and goes to the little cottage outside the city during certain days of the week. Vale, his mentor, is more than happy to accommodate such a schedule and gains a helper around their shop that shows promise within the first weeks. Delighted to have the help, Vale even helps him create an elixir he’d only heard of in his books, one that seems practiced and memorized for them. 

The look on his mother’s face as she realises his voice is deepening is one Fennorian will remember fondly. 

His knowledge on herbs and solvents grows each day, and there are times when Vale is sure Fennorian will take their entire career from them without notice. At the end of the day, however, Fennorian is happy to be their apprentice. The thought of his own alchemy shop is still a distant dream, one that he doesn't want to pursue until he's certain he can handle it on his own.

And, perhaps, he enjoys Vale’s teaching techniques; at first, a bit overwhelming being thrown into an alchemical laboratory with no proper training. But after he’s gotten the hang of how to use such equipment, Vale often gives him assignments and expects them done by the end of the day. Some are easy: simple healing potions made from the most basic ingredients. Other assignments are far more difficult; things meant as paralyzing poisons for the King’s soldiers and their weapons, tonics and salves meant to help those lying in healer’s wards with no other means of getting better.

Vale does mean well by it, he knows. When some tasks prove far above Fennorian’s expertise, they stop their work to offer some help, teaching him just how different materials interact with the physical world — and how they interact with the magical aspects of the world. There’s a deep science behind it, and Fennorian finds himself curious about not only the alchemical aspects but if there is, perhaps, something more at work. A deeper science that goes beyond what they know — if certain metals have an effect on how their potions and elixirs work, forcing them to be stored in varying containers, doesn’t that mean they have some properties they haven’t quite discovered yet? What if he could pick apart just what they do, what they’re made of, deep down?

He brings up such an idea to Vale, who tilts their head and contemplates for a long moment.

“If you can figure _that_ out,” they say, stroking their beard, “Then I will be incredibly impressed.”

By the time he’s nineteen, he’s passed another hurdle for himself, one that rids him of the need for the tight leather bindings his father made for him. His parents are happy for him, helping him as he recovers at the healers. Fennorian goes to see Vale after a week, and they, too, congratulate him. And then it’s back to work as usual, and Fennorian is making potions and running them back to town on a regular basis. 

He's astonished by how quickly the mages in town are able to heal him up, and he chooses not to take it for granted. Vale tries to get him to slow down, to take work a little easier so as not to irritate his scars, but he's too excited to be back at work to heed his words. The mages have restoration magic for a reason, he tells Vale, everything is already healed over! 

On a particular run through town only a few days after he’s deemed recovered, he stops at a familiar doorstep to drop off a crate of potion bottles and satchels of herb mixes. He knocks on the door and readies himself to leave once his delivery is taken, fidgeting on his feet. The door swings open and he's greeted by a lively young Khajiit woman, as per usual. He knows Abanji fairly well, by now — the potions he delivers to her are for her adoptive father, a Breton man whose joints have been giving him trouble for the last few years.

"Fennorian!" Abanji says, clapping her furred hands together, "I'm glad to see you're doing good!"

Ah, yes. The reaction he's been getting for the past few days. He smiles and hands her the crate, careful not to jostle the glass.

"I recover fast," he says, a cheerful lilt to his voice.

Abanji adjusts the crate to hold it upon her hip, reaching for her coin purse at her side. She looks contemplative for a moment before telling him to wait there, and rushes back inside. He hears the crate being set down and some rummaging before she hurries back to him, a book in her hands. She drops the coin purse on top of it and holds both out to him.

"Too late for a get well soon gift, but not too late for a glad you're doing better gift, right?"

Fennorian takes both, cheeks flushing. He's not used to this sort of thing. In fact, he's not used to interacting with clients other than figuring out what they need and delivering the finished projects. 

"Thank you," he says, voice laced with amazement. The book looks to be about Khajiiti alchemy techniques, judging by the cover. Elegant lettering covers stylized flowers and leaves cascading down the front of the cover. A clawed hand is pictured at the bottom, holding a large desert-dwelling flower in its palm. 

“Figured you’d get more use out of it than me,” Abanji admits, rubbing the back of her head. Her hair swings behind her, long and braided. 

“I’m always interested in learning more about alchemy,” he says, thumbing over the pages of the book. He doesn’t catch the way that Abanji stares at him, fiddling with her braid.

"You work so much," she says, and he looks up.

"I — yes. I enjoy it. Working."

"You should take some time off!" Abanji says, "Some friends and I are going to meet up tomorrow night. You should join us."

He doesn’t know how to say no to something like that, so he quietly agrees to meet with her. Later, when he tells Vale of the situation, he’s told to go have fun and forget work for the day. That he needs to make friends his own age and to stop hanging around with a solitary old elf so often. So he does — and while at first he’s nervous, Abanji helps him open up. It's a small, tight knit group that he's welcomed into, faces Fennorian recognizes and some he doesn't. They meet at dusk many nights, either wandering down to the pond down the road or meeting in the town square to simply enjoy each other's presence. He falls quickly into their dynamic and opens up more, learning to separate his work and his social life.

His parents notice but say little, simply happy for him. 

Summer rolls through and Fennorian finds himself spending more and more time with his friends. Vale doesn’t mind — in fact, they encourage it. They can handle the responsibility of the business, they’ve been doing it for seventy years already!

His friends take a day to go further away from town just before the middle of summer, toward a large lake where they catch sight of fishermen and other groups of young people from neighboring villages. Fennorian and his friends race their way down the hill and to the docks, stopping as they scramble across the wooden structure. Abanji creeps up behind him on the dock and without warning, Fennorian finds himself toppling over the edge and into the water.

But not without grabbing her by the arm to drag her down, too. She yelps as she falls, and Fennorian swallows a gulp of lakewater before making a dash for the dock. He's pulled up by Duluk, a cheerful young Orc. Abanji laughs at him as he pulls his shirt off to wring it dry, and he gives her a snaggle-toothed, sarcastic smile as she does the same with her braids.

Later, when he tells his mother about it, she scolds him for being so rambunctious — he could have gotten hurt! But Abanji is there with him, laughing with him about it before they hurry off to go see Vale before night falls.

  
  


His early twenties are much less eventful than he expects. He spends much of his time with Vale, learning more about the craft of alchemy, honing his skills. Fennorian finds that his best skills lie in healing and medicinal sorts of mixes, and he chooses to focus on that in the long run. Research into all sorts of things continues, but with his heart set on being a healer, those skills are honed sharper than the rest. 

Abanji takes him to the tavern with some others on nights he doesn’t get wholly distracted with his work. There’s something enjoyable in it — getting drunk with people he can be himself around. Quite a few nights end with Fennorian and his friends laughing as they leave the tavern, joking loudly, throwing playful jabs at each other. 

At twenty-one, he has his first kiss behind the cover of some trees with a pretty Nord woman after drinking far too much. They’re drunk and laughing and it’s possibly the clumsiest thing he’s ever done. He remembers the way she smelled like liquor and apple blossoms, her perfume potent in his nose over the alcohol on her tongue. They get caught by a town guard who shoos them back home and he gets scolded by his mother for being out so late. He's not usually one to get in trouble.

But it was fun. 

Vale teases him about it, later, after his hangover has receded enough that it doesn’t hurt his head to grind herbs in the mortar and pestle. The clanking of the hard stone is still sharp against his ears, but it’s not as bad as it was waking up that morning, rolling out of bed and clutching his face.

“Heard you got caught,” comes the first bit of taunting, and Fennorian ducks his head down to hide the way his cheeks flush. His hair falls over his face, covering his expression as he stares at the herbs he’s working into a fine powder.

“Yes,” Fennorian admits, feeling nervous laughter bubbling in his throat. 

“I remember being that young.” Vale says, stroking their beard. “Got caught with quite a few boys my age.”

“You?” Fennorian asks, shaking his hair from his face. “No. You’re too serious for that.”

“I wasn’t always the crotchety old mer I am now.” Vale says. “I was young, once.”

“Unbelievable. I think you were always old.” He laughs, watching as Vale narrows their eyes and swats at his hands.

“Insufferable child!” Vale chuckles, taking the mortar from Fennorian’s hands, the dried herbs smelling twice as pungent as before. It’s an enjoyable, sweet aroma, a mixture of citrus and spice. 

  
  
  
  


Shortly after his twenty—seventh birthday, Fennorian takes a long hike out into the wilds to search for some mushrooms Vale asked for. He’s looking forward to the next few months, as he knows his mother is going to be having another child soon and he’s going to be an older brother. His father has already repurposed so many of his old things, and Fennorian has spent the prior months learning the best combinations of herbs to help his mother’s comfort, to help his new sibling when they arrive. Other than that, he doesn’t know what to expect — sure, he’s seen neighbors’ new children being raised, but his own family? 

Oh, the thought of family had driven his curiosity to a point where he politely asked his mother of their extended family. Of his grandparents on her side.

She’d turned red in the face and told him not to ask again. 

( The same reaction she'd had when he'd joked about his snaggle-toothed smile. )

He still wonders why.

But he won’t push it.

He climbs up a steep slope with that thought at the front of his mind, knowing that just beyond the crest of it there’s a creek he can follow deeper into the woods, leading him to a place where the very mushrooms Vale wants grow in abundance. Just as he manages to lift himself up, he hears rustling in the brush mere meters away.

An animal, he thinks, and glances up at the dimming sky. 

He makes a sound to scare it off, but instead of hearing whatever creature he expects in the bush run away, he’s greeted with the low hiss of something far more sinister. Branches break, something rushes out from the ferns and bushes, throwing him onto his back. His head lands on the edge of the hilltop, his neck craned back so he’s met with the sight of the forest beyond. Whipping his head forward, he regrets his actions immediately.

A gaunt man is staring down at him, emaciated and eyes gone white. His skin is nearly falling from his face, and Fennorian can barely make out the ragged hair and long, fanged teeth within his mouth before the man lunges at him again.

A bloodfiend.

He thrashes, screaming, kicking at the man as teeth dig into his neck and attempt to rip — he’s grateful for the angle he’s able to shove the man at, throwing him back and away without tearing into him too badly. The man lets out a frustrated garble of sounds before going for him again, teeth and long nails going for his arm, his neck, anywhere he can get. Fennorian kicks him away again, crashes his boot against his skull and shouts for anyone, please, help him!

Nobody answers — not this deep into the wilds. Claws rake against his leg, blood seeps through the fabric of his clothes. Fennorian takes several terrified gasps of air and feels a sickening crack as his boot meets the man’s head once again. He pants, hoping that the stillness the bloodfiend shows means the dangers are through.

He’s bleeding from a few places and the shock of the situation has him thoroughly rattled. 

His eyes close as he passes out.

  
  


Morning dawns. 

His skin itches.

Fennorian gets up, grimaces as he feels his wounds pull at his skin, and collects his bag and the jars that had spilled from inside it. The bloodfiend lies on the ground, still, and he takes in a shaky breath as he recollects the events of the previous night.

He wraps his arms around himself as he gives up on finding what Vale wanted, treading down the long way through the forest to avoid any climbing. The sun makes his eyes hurt, and he assumes it’s simply because of the fall he took. He’s also hungry, but the thought of food is making him nauseated and sick. 

It takes him until well into the afternoon to find his way back to Vale’s cottage. He opens the door with a groan and leans against the frame, wanting nothing more than to lie down and rest off his injuries. Vale turns to look at him as he comes inside, mouth partially open in a greeting until they look Fennorian up and down.

“Fennorian?” Vale says, worried, “You look ill. Come sit down.”

Fennorian trudges inside, his head pounding. 

“Sorry,” He drawls, “I… I didn’t find…”

“It’s fine, boy. Sit down, rest.” Vale’s voice is gentle. Fennorian almost does as they say, stopping with one hand on the back of the wooden chair at the tiny dinner table.

He doesn’t know what comes over him.

( He does. He knows very well what comes over him, knows he’s been infected and his body reacted badly. Later, he learns, a clash of the bloodfiend's infection and his dormant bloodline. )

His vision goes dark as he lunges at Vale, teeth sharper than he’s ever known, and then all he remembers is blood.

  
  


The cottage is filthy.

Fennorian comes to with a sob, the smell and taste of blood all he can sense, looking around at the complete mess of the little house. Once a source of comfort with its shelves overloaded with dried herbs and jars of reagents now soaked to the floorboards with blood, drying against the wood and the stone.

Vale’s body lays, still, bloody, on the floor. Fennorian chokes on another sob as he looks them over, covering his mouth with his hand. His bloody, aching hands. 

“Oh, gods,” he whimpers, shaking, “Oh, _gods_.”

He drags Vale outside of the cottage, tears streaming down his face, marking stark lines into the blood on his skin. A fire, he thinks, he needs a fire. To get rid of this, to prevent himself from falling victim to the thrall of blood—hunger again. He puts Vale’s body facing down on the fire pit they used to sit beside at night and rushes back inside, grabbing anything he can find that will burn. He takes planks of shelves knocked down from earlier, finds any wood and cloth he can just to pile on top of Vale outside.

Firewood from the nearby pile gets lumped in as well. He wants it to burn for as long as it possibly can.

Then he takes the firestarter and continues crying, managing to flick sparks into the fire pit until one of the curtains catches fire and the rest of the pile follows suit.

He goes inside.

The smell is horrific.

Fennorian sits at the table and sobs, raking his hands through his hair. He can feel drying blood crusting on his chin and neck, some still wet under his shirt. It’s too much, and while the nausea of hunger has gone away, nausea of guilt and terror washes over him. Everything is bloody, his hands are covered in dirt and grime and blood. 

There’s a tub of water sitting atop the counter. He stands, slowly, reaching for a mug to force himself to drink a large gulp of water to wash the taste and smell from him.

The water doesn’t sit well. He coughs, half of it making its way down and the other half getting caught in his throat as he chokes. Several moments pass as he wheezes and holds his chest, eyes filling with tears yet again.

Why now? 

He sinks to his knees in front of the counter and lets himself cry until he’s exhausted himself, his throat clenching with hiccups and sobs that barely make it through. 

The night passes. 

Outside, the firepit smolders. 

He rekindles it from embers before they die fully and cries once more, for the loss of his mentor, for the situation he’s found himself in, for the loss of himself.

  
  


Two days after Vale's death, he writes a letter to his mother.

The words are rough and emotional, the parchment smells like herbs and blood. He explains his situation to her, tells her not to come look for him but to please help him somehow, as he doesn’t know what to do. He’s tried every potion and elixir he can think of to no avail, and he’s getting worse as time carries on. He’s emptied the cupboards and shelves of materials and ingredients, but nothing calms the blood-hunger inside of him. He swallows harshly as he seals the letter with wax, and instead of blood, all he tastes now is the bitterness of medicinal herbs.

He leaves the letter in the little postbox down the road and checks it each night during the week in the darkest hours of the night when he knows nobody will be out.

The letter he receives in return is less than helpful. It feels like _betrayal_.

 _I will not have your grandfather’s curse in my house_ , it reads. _Cure yourself or don’t come home._

Fennorian sobs into his arms, letter crumpled in his hands, and he feels like giving up — because what more can he do? He won’t allow himself to pose a danger to the people he cares about, won’t dare go outside of the cottage because he doesn’t know what he’ll end up doing. He needs to feed again, he has to — and he doesn't think he can resist the urge if he winds up around someone. 

He settles into the cottage without venturing outside, struggling to write letters to a priest that could cure him, or perhaps even someone to guide him through his situation. But he doesn't know where to send them, and going out to the post is harder now with how weak he feels. The letters remain on the table and he wastes what energy he has left trying to scrub the blood from the floor to rid himself of the urge to go out and find more.

He feels disgust well up inside him as he licks his fingers part way through, hands wet with a mixture of water and Vale's dried blood. 

He can't succumb to it. He refuses.

  
  


He sleeps. Perhaps too much. Not only during the days but also most of the night, only stirring to stare out the window at the fire pit. 

At this rate, he will either not live long enough to see his new sibling, or he'll turn into a monster like that bloodfiend that turned him.

He doesn't know which is worse.

  
  


Two weeks.

Two weeks without sustaining himself on anything other than his first and only taste of blood, and Fennorian can do nothing more than lay in the small bed in the corner of the cottage. His body aches with hunger, with the strain of simply continuing to go on. 

The door of the cottage pushes open.

Inside creeps a man who is obviously a vampire, his skin pale and ghostly white, his eyes shining red in the vague moonlight through the window. Fennorian can’t get up, can’t even begin to think about fighting him off. So he curls into himself in the bedsheets further and whimpers, knowing that it’s likely the end of this short adventure.

The vampire steps beside him, crouching down toward him. Fennorian is pulled up into a sitting position, his vision dipping in and out of darkness. He hears the vampire pull something from his satchel.

"Drink this." The vampire says, pushing a metal flask into Fennorian's hands. His grip on it is weak, his fingers shake so terribly that he can't unscrew the top. He's guided by hands that aren't his own, the cap of the flask dropping onto the wooden floor to roll away. The hands that aren't his guide the flask to his lips, and before he can recognize the taste he's drunk half the flask in one go. 

The vampire clicks his tongue, letting go of him as he drinks the rest down. Fennorian feels himself begin to come forth once again, the deliriousness of blood—hunger finally receding. 

"You poor boy," the man says, "You've been starving yourself."

He blinks, finally clearing his vision. The vampire in front of him looks familiar but yet he's never seen him in his life. There are a hundred questions in his head that he wants to ask, but his mouth feels like cotton. Another flask is pulled from the vampire's satchel and handed off to him. This time, he drinks more slowly, not quite so desperate.

"When I heard what happened," the man — elf, by the look of him — says, glancing at his satchel for more bottles, "I knew I'd have to step in."

Fennorian looks at him, studies his face. Gives him a confused look.

"My name is Verandis Ravenwatch," he explains, and it helps little.

"You…" he starts, his voice breaking. "That Count. In Rivenspire." 

Verandis nods.

"More than that," Verandis says, voice quiet, "I'm here to help. Do you trust me?"

Fennorian feels as though he can't say no. He nods.

"Good. Good," Verandis says, standing slowly. He offers a hand to help Fennorian up, as well. "How much do you know of me?"

 _Well,_ Fennorian wants to say, _The vampire thing is new._

However, his mouth still struggles to form words as he leans against the wall to hold himself up even with help. Verandis guides him to a chair, settling him in.

"Not much?" Verandis asks, and Fennorian shakes his head.

"You can see me for what I am, now. But I need you to know something more." Verandis says, and sits beside him at the tiny table. 

Fennorian raises a brow. 

"Your mother," Verandis says, choosing his words carefully, "Does not like me. At all. Breaks my heart, truly — I miss her as any father misses his daughter."

Everything halts.

Father? _Daughter?_

"You're…" Fennorian says, tongue twisting, "My grandfather?" 

Verandis nods. Fennorian likes to think he’s not so gullible, but his mother’s note…

_His grandfather’s curse._

"I heard, distantly, that I had a grand… child. At first, I wasn't going to pry, but then I heard tell of a vampire situation, and I…"

"Found me." Fennorian says, eyes downcast to the flask in his hands. Verandis nods, worry written across his features.

“I had to make sure one of my own bloodline wasn't..." Verandis pauses, shakes his head. "I take it your mother didn’t take this news well.”

Fennorian makes a face, feels the push of tears in his eyes and chokes them back. He doesn't want to think about the letter. About his mother’s immediate distrust of him.

"It's okay. It's okay, it's hard. I know. But I can help you." Verandis sounds so sincere. Fennorian wants to believe him.

"How?" He rasps.

"I can teach you to control this. Or I can help cure you — whichever you feel safer pursuing. But the bloodline you possess — my bloodline — you're far more susceptible to this condition. I want you to be prepared for that, should you cure yourself or not." Verandis explains, and Fennorian nods as he takes in his words. He thinks, distantly, of the sibling he hasn't met yet. Wonders for just a moment if they’ll end up just the same as him.

"My home is open to you." Verandis continues, and then, "But I do need to know your name, first."

Fennorian purses his lips. 

It would be nice to be somewhere new, wouldn't it? Somewhere nobody would know him, where nobody would ask him _questions_. It would be easy to start over with Verandis, wouldn't it?

He considers the letter.

_His grandfather’s curse._

_Cure yourself or don't come home._

Fennorian shuts his eyes for a moment, then pulls the flask up to his mouth once more. He takes a drink just to fill the moment with something, to think his choice over even though he knows what he's going to do already. It wouldn't be so bad, he thinks, living like this. Especially if he could simply carry these flasks with him rather than have to sink his fangs into anyone…That was viable for a vampire, right?

He clears his throat.

"Fennorian." He says. "My name is Fennorian."

"And a good name that is. Fennorian." Verandis says, smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :3c


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rivenspire, Verandis, and another loss.

Verandis helps him clean himself up, gets him a change of clothes from the next town over. They travel at night, Verandis with a staff upon his back and a reassurance to Fennorian that he can protect him, don’t worry. Fennorian is happy to let Verandis take the lead and show him little things about his new condition, to help ensure that he isn’t scared of the many possibilities. The elder vampire seems to have an endless supply of blood—filled bottles for him, which is good. New as he is, being a vampire, Fennorian seems to constantly feel the pang of hunger in him. Verandis explains to him that it’s simply his body becoming used to the new sustenance, that it will pass soon enough and he will not have to be consuming as much so often. 

He looks forward to that. The realisation also crosses his mind that the taste is beginning to shift, turning from a vaguely metallic, almost bland sort of taste into something sweeter. 

"You will notice that happening as you become more attuned to your condition." Verandis explains, "Later, you may even notice the difference between the blood of one of the servants and someone else."

"Servants?" Fennorian asks, wiping the corner of his mouth. It's strange seeing the trace of blood on his hand.

“House Ravenwatch employs willing mortals to help supply us with the blood we need,” Verandis says as he takes the empty flask from Fennorian’s hands as they settle in under a cliff face, into a short cavern to avoid the rising sun. Fennorian's skin still itches dreadfully any time he sets foot in the sun; Verandis assures him that will pass as well, once his bloodline has settled in.

“People willingly…” Fennorian begins, tilting his head.

“ _Very_ willingly. In return, they get anything that they need or ask for. Their help means House Ravenwatch is able to do its part in quieting the more violent vampires out there.”

“Is that all that you do?” Fennorian asks, sitting so he can rest his arms on his knees. The sun rises out beyond their shaded cavern. Verandis waves a hand.

“We meet with King Emeric, we protect the people… We watch out for possible dangers from the dark.” Verandis explains, watching the shadows on the ground slowly grow longer as morning dawns. “We hold a very important role in Rivenspire — in everything, perhaps. But don't feel pressured to have all this weight on your shoulders, Fennorian.”

Fennorian looks up at him.

"I want you to be a part of this because you're family. You can choose to undertake some of these larger responsibilities later, but for now, I want you to focus on being safe."

For a long moment, Fennorian wonders just why his mother hid this legacy from him. Is it the vampirism she’s scared of? Verandis himself? Or the fact that the house has such an important and dangerous role?

He picks at a thread on his knee. His father would scold him for that, he remembers, and lets go of it. 

"Thank you," Fennorian says, and Verandis smiles at him. 

"Get some rest," he says, turning to the edge of the cavern, "I will be back."

Fennorian does as Verandis suggests, settling against the wall of the cavern. He leans his head back and stares up at the rocky ceiling, thinking over the past few weeks. 

About the people he's leaving behind.

He hopes, sincerely, that his family is doing well. That his new sibling is healthy and his mother is happy, that his friends aren't worrying too much over him. Or thinking bad of him — but then again, he'd sent a letter to his mother admitting to murder. Fennorian shuts his eyes tighter as he considers just how stupid that was of him, that he could have had the guard called on him if his mother had judged the situation any differently. 

Despite such anxieties plaguing him, he dozes off in the cool cavern.

The following evening, they set foot once more toward their destination with rain coming and going. Verandis teaches him the basics of what he needs to know and even dares to show off some of his abilties just to help him feel less apprehensive about the whole situation. Verandis at one point loses his pale complexion, and it's not until much later that Fennorian notices or comments on it, making Verandis laugh.

"Eventually, when you have a better grasp on your power, you will be able to do this, as well." He assures him.

"How long did it take you to learn that?" Fennorian asks, studying him. He looks alive, mortal, full Altmer instead of a vampire. The only thing giving him away are his teeth, canines sharper and longer than any normal mortal's.

"Years," Verandis admits, "And it can take a lot out of you if you're not ready for it."

"Do you think you'll be able to teach me that, one day?" Fennorian asks, and Verandis clicks his tongue.

"Perhaps. We're going to have to see just how strongly my bloodline takes over your strain; you may gain all the same abilities I have, or you may have some from whoever it was that infected you."

Fennorian pauses.

"It was a bloodfiend," he says, and Verandis raises a brow at him.

"Was it?" He asks, astounded, "Oh, Fennorian."

He looks away. Verandis looks sorry for him.

"Is that bad?" 

"It makes it much more difficult to judge what you might end up with," Verandis says. "But don't worry, don't worry! I'm sure my blood is much stronger than that bloodfiend's."

Fennorian can only hope he's right, judging by his apprehension.

Castle Ravenwatch is massive. 

The region of Rivenspire is being washed over in great thunderstorms when they arrive, lightning threatening to strike the massive spires of the castle itself. Verandis ushers Fennorian inside and toward the hearth to dry off, rebutting comments from the other vampires in the hall as he does so. One woman — his age, it seems — comments about him being dinner and he flinches. 

Fennorian can’t help but be slightly uncomfortable at the words — this vampire culture is so new to him, and travelling days with Verandis has only gotten him accustomed to so much. Verandis leaves him with a blanket and a change of clothes and he gratefully takes both, ducking away from the hearth only long enough to find an empty room to rid himself of his soaking wet clothes. They’re taken from his hands by the same man who’d just had his blood taken from him by two vampires, and he seems all too cheerful to be doing as such. 

A fresh change of clothes is already enough to help him feel a little better — he slinks back to the hearth and brings the blanket over his shoulders. While he runs his hands through his hair, he scoots closer to the fire, shaking out the water. He ignores the stares from those in the house, concerning himself with drying himself off to rid himself of the chill. Well, what chill he can drive away — he’s noticed his body temperature has lowered quite a bit since he’s turned.

Later, Verandis steps in beside him to offer him a new flask, and he takes it with a quiet thank you. He’s introduced properly to the two he saw earlier — Gwendis and Adusa-daro — and keeps the rest of the night to himself. Kallin, the blood-servant, visits him with an offer of a late dinner, and Fennorian feels his throat go tight when he realises the man is offering him blood from his body at that very moment. 

The urge comes forward, he feels the temptation to bare his fangs, but he resists. Holds up his flask and smiles ever so slightly, and Kallin leaves with a skip in his step. 

  
  


The following weeks, he and Verandis find equipment to set up upstairs for him to work with. He regrets not being able to take more from Vale’s cottage — the mortar and pestle were a last—minute decision, shoved into a satchel to be brought along as a personal reminder. 

He has a working alchemical station set up before too long, and he's grateful for Verandis scouring the markets in nearby cities for more equipment — glass flasks and sophisticated stands that let him sort his ingredients and already—mixed concoctions with a simple motion. He gets books — both guidebooks and empty journals to record his findings — and soon he has a rather impressive study and laboratory coming into place. It’s nothing like Vale’s old cottage, it feels newer and more scientific than an old mer’s collection of herbs, but maybe that’s what makes it _his_. 

From his original fascination with the internal magic and alchemy of the world, he turns to more intricate sciences. With all the time in the world, he’s able to pick apart not only magical attributes of things but the details and inner workings that he’s never been able to study so deeply.

Verandis brings him a particularly heavy metal framework for holding large amounts of experiments at once and they have to bring in another desk just to fit it, what with all of his other equipment already covering nearly his entire workspace. They set it up together, making sure the joints move properly before setting about putting the glass parts into their places on the frame. Verandis makes conversation with him, and they discuss his work so far and how he’s settling in until the topic of Fennorian’s known family comes into the picture.

"Your mother did not inherit being a vampire, if you're any evidence of that. Her mother was mortal as well, I assume." Verandis says, helping Fennorian adjust an arm of the device. He almost drops a glass beaker in the process, but catches it just before it hits the corner of the table. 

"You assume." Fennorian says, fixing Verandis with a strange, curious look. He takes the flask from him and sets it properly in its place. “You don’t know who my grandmother is?”

“A shame, I know. The only reason I know who your mother is is because she so vehemently distrusts me.” Verandis explains, finally screwing in the final piece of the new stand. “Based on your age, _her_ mother could be any of… four or so women.”

Fennorian didn’t want to know his grandfather’s history of partners, but here he is.

He changes the topic and Verandis goes along with it, listening to him talk about the last few experiments he’s run.

  
  


Other house members show up and leave for their own business as time goes on. Fennorian is introduced to some in passing and others sit with him to get to know him, and he learns many names and many faces. There are more vampires in House Ravenwatch than he'd expected, and when he points as such out to Verandis, he's told that many of them were turned unwillingly just like himself and sought shelter with Verandis after hearing rumor of the house's affiliations. 

At the very least that means they have a place to find support, he thinks. Everyone deserves at least that, right?

There are also newly-turned vampires that have found themselves within the house recently who stumble around just as he does, trying to learn how to use their power. He's brought along with a Breton girl — Melina — as Verandis takes them to the castle's gardens to teach them alongside each other. Verandis makes a comment once about how it would be easier to instruct them one at a time, but he's a busy Count and perhaps this will give them an opportunity to help each other learn.

Melina, however, spends most of their lessons trying to whisper to Fennorian, who shushes her more than once. She is, however, _distracting_ with how often she tries to speak to him.

"Fennorian," Verandis says, catching his attention away from trying to hush Melina, "Do you think you can get up there?"

Fennorian looks up to where Verandis is pointing. A balcony from one of the upper stories with vines draping down the sides, the door leading to one of the many bedrooms in the castle.

"I could go upstairs," he says, and Melina laughs. Verandis shakes his head.

"I... Perhaps it _is_ best if I teach you one on one — or at the very least, have Adusa teach you a few things while I am away," he says, rubbing his temple. "I think I repeated this lesson in mistwalking at least three times."

"I'm sorry," Fennorian says, sincere, "I — it's very hard to concentrate."

"I can tell." Verandis says, looking at the way Melina is bouncing on her heels.

His next lesson is with Verandis, alone, and it goes much smoother. Melina, however, does her best to interrupt whenever she can, making comments about how she'd love to spend some more time with Fennorian, it would be fun! 

Fennorian doesn't indulge her. He does, however, find that asking her to go find things for him keeps her busy enough that she spends less time trying to get his attention.

Gwendis becomes a good friend to have. She knows every inch of the castle, its grounds, and the village of Crestshade below. She takes him through quiet tunnels below the castle to secret places near the village where they sit for hours during the daytime, avoiding sunlight while still able to see the people and the wildlife passing through. 

She also becomes a sister to him, and for a short while, Fennorian mourns the loss of the sibling he’s never going to meet. His mother’s new child — he hopes that they’re doing well, hopes that his mother is recovering and happy. 

The thoughts pass through his head during one quiet day while Gwendis sits in his workdesk’s high—backed chair, playing with a sealed vial full of an experimental concoction. She catches the way that he stops working, staring into nothing as his hands still.

“Fennorian?” She says, her thumb pressed over the cork on the vial. He shakes his head, blinking a few times before turning to look at her.

“Yes?”

“Are you okay?” Her voice is sincere. He purses his lips.

“I think so.” He says, “Just… Thinking.”

“About?” Gwendis sets down the vial. It rolls across the desk, stopping against the inkwell.

“My mother.” Fennorian admits. He sets down his tools, finding his way beside the desk. He leans his hip against it, crossing his arms.

“You miss her.” Gwendis says, putting her chin in her hands, elbows on the desk. She rumples one of Fennorian’s papers as she does so, but he doesn’t make a fuss of it. He can fix it, later.

“Of course. She and I were close.” He tilts his head back, looking up at the arched ceiling. “She was the first person I was myself around.”

“Ooh,” Gwendis hums, nodding. She thinks she understands. “You told her you liked boys, then?”

“What?” Fennorian says, quickly turning his gaze to her, brows furrowed. “No. I mean, I do, yes, but, no, Gwendis, not that, I thought — I assumed you knew...”

“Knew what?” Gwendis says, laughing, and Fennorian feels his face heat up. Ah, right — Verandis hadn’t ever explained anything to anyone else, had left that specific detail to Fennorian’s own discretion.

“I can’t believe this,” he says, running a hand through his hair.

“Knew what, Fenn? You can’t just hint at these things and not tell me!” She begins standing, pushing the chair back with a loud creak. Fennorian keeps laughing, waving his hand.

“You were getting there with the gender thing,” he says between his laughter, and after a moment of her silence, Gwendis gets it.

“Oh!” Comes her shout, her expression nothing but disbelief, “Fenn, really?”

“Yes, really — I thought I was _so_ obvious,” he admits, and she shakes her head. He’d been nervous since day one, thinking that he was so easy to read. Gwendis’ reaction makes him feel better about how far he’s come. 

Something else dawns on her face, and she brightens further.

“You _trust_ me!”

“Of course I trust you,” he says, “You’re my sister.”

Gwendis looks happier than he’s ever seen her.

There’s a faint hissing sound on the desk.

The vial she’d tossed has begun smoking, and Fennorian panics.

“Oh, gods!” He shouts, grabbing a rag from one of the stands to quickly dive over the hissing vial and cover it. Just as his hands meet the desk, the vial pops, glass shattering over the desk and onto the floor along with a massive puff of blue smoke. When the smoke recedes, Fennorian is left with his once—white shirt stained a deep navy, along with his face and arms. He blows a huff of air and as he licks his lips, he makes a disgusted face, tongue stained partially blue.

Gwendis can’t stop laughing at him.

“Alright, _what_ is the commotion up here?” Verandis’ voice calls from outside the hall, and Fennorian shares a silent, panicked look with Gwendis before they both erupt into laughter once again.

  
  
  


The first time Fennorian actually uses his fangs to drink from one of the blood-servants is also the last time he thinks he'll ever do so. Kallin offers and Verandis nods at him as Fennorian hesitantly thinks it over.

So he tries, sinking his fangs into Kallin's arm as he's offered, and the moment the blood pools into his mouth he feels absolutely ravenous, the only thought in his head telling him that needs more. Thankfully, he has the foresight to pull away and cover his mouth, shaking his head. Verandis tugs him away, an arm over his shoulders. He takes Fennorian to another room as Kallin casts a healing spell over himself, sealing the wound. 

"Are you alright?" Verandis asks, his hands on Fennorian's shoulders, looking him in the face. Fennorian takes a heavy breath, lifting his hand from his mouth. It's wet with what blood he'd wiped from his face.

"I think so," he says, his voice rough, "I... I don't know what... I felt like I had to drain him."

"It's a good thing you caught that." Verandis says, rubbing his shoulders. "Many young vampires don't know how to control themselves, and..."

He trails off as he feels Fennorian's shoulders shake. 

Instead of speaking further, he pulls Fennorian into his chest and holds him as he sobs. In his head, all Fennorian can think of is what happened with Vale — he feels like he's in the cottage once again, covered in his mentor's blood, staring at his body on the floor. 

"It's okay, Fennorian." Verandis says, his voice surprisingly gentle, rubbing his back, "It's alright."

Vampires have their own way of seeing the world and the passage of time, Fennorian realises. Many times, he catches a conversation between Verandis and someone else where he assumes the topic is of something recent, only to hear a mention of a long—dead king or some other hints that prove their age just as easily. 

After hearing that more than a few times, he takes to Verandis’ study and begins going through his older sections — not only history books but journals, both of Verandis’ and other house Ravenwatch members. He finds stories of ages long past, of adventures in places that are naught but ruins now, and notes many curiosities that he wants to ask Verandis about when he has the time. 

The time, however, never seems to come. Verandis teaches him what he needs to know, but there are difficulties when he’s a very popular Count and one of King Emeric’s go—tos for information.

Months after he begins his stay with House Ravenwatch, Verandis begins disappearing for longer periods of time. He shows up tired and distraught many times, and Fennorian worries for him. Many times, their lessons are cut short by someone needing Verandis’ attention, and Fennorian ends up having to go to Gwendis or Adusa for the rest of the explanations. 

There are whispers of things stirring with the Montclair family, and Fennorian vaguely recognizes the name — Verandis brings him along a few times to meet with representatives of different families. But without the entire story, he feels lost in a world that he’s been dunked into without warning, politics being discussed while his head spins and he tries to grasp the trading of powers.

At one point, he’s crossing through one of the halls when he hears Verandis instruct a mortal Breton man to drink a dreamwalking potion. He peeks only slightly to see the mustached man drink the entire vial without hesitation and his confusion is only furthered.

Afterward, the few times Verandis is in the castle, he’s busy with research. He asks Fennorian for help every so often, but for the most part he’s impossible to tear away from his books and scrolls, searching desperately for a solution to something that he won’t explain.

“Fennorian,” Verandis says one evening, staring so hard at a particular map that Fennorian is sure it will catch fire, “Come here.”

He does. He stands in front of Verandis’ desk, hands at his sides. Verandis looks up from his work and into his face, their eyes meeting. Something about the situation feels very dire.

“I’m proud of you.” 

The words are a shockingly wonderful compliment, but they feel…

“Verandis?” Fennorian says, voice wavering, “Is everything alright?”

Verandis goes quiet. His eyes fall back down to the map, where Fennorian sees notes on an ayleid ruin penned out, places on the map circled.

“I am about to undertake a very important endeavor,” he says, “And if I don’t make it back, I…”

“You always make it back,” Fennorian says. His voice drops to a lower whisper. “Is it that dangerous? Do you — do you need help?”

“Trust me when I say you won’t be able to help me with this.” Verandis’ voice is quite confident. “This is something I must do myself, and it’s the one thing I’ve been trying to keep from happening for decades. Centuries, perhaps; it may be the very reason I was made into what I am.”

Fennorian doesn’t want to hear this. He doesn’t want to hear that he might lose his family _again_. But if this is the case, if he can’t stop him…

“Thank you,” Fennorian says, and Verandis’ head snaps up to meet his gaze once again. “For helping me. Without you, I’d be…”

Verandis sighs. Steps around the desk to pull Fennorian into his arms, and it’s all Fennorian can do not to cry against his shoulder. 

“You’re a good man. Keep doing what you love,” Verandis says, “And keep Gwendis out of trouble, won’t you?”

Fennorian laughs. It feels so much like a goodbye that he doesn’t want to face. He tucks his face a little tighter against his shoulder, mumbling into the fabric of his robes.

“I will.”

Verandis pulls away from him and there's a softened expression across his face. The smile he wears looks so genuinely proud that for a moment, Fennorian forgets that he isn't his father.

A hand presses against his shoulder as Verandis leans to press a kiss to the top of his forehead.

"If I do not return from this, I want you to have no doubt at all that I love you. No matter what our bloodline says, Fennorian, you are my son, to me."

That's what breaks him. Fennorian feels tears burn at his eyes as he reaches for Verandis again, wrapping his arms around him to simply cling to him. They stand as such for some time, Verandis’ hand brushing over Fennorian’s hair, shushing him like a child — the thought briefly crosses Fennorian’s mind that Verandis would have made a wonderful grandfather for him, years ago. 

Would it be right to say that he mourns the time he never got to spend with Verandis? He’s not sure. But eventually he pulls back and goes back to his work, unable to focus on his tasks. The evening is instead spent with Gwendis, who tells him what she knows of Verandis’ plan, what he’s preparing himself for. Of the adventurer who’d helped them along.

At least he’s in good hands, Fennorian thinks.

Verandis leaves the following day. Fennorian isn’t sure how much time actually passes between then and when Gwendis comes back home with the same Breton man he’d seen with Verandis before. Fennorian meets her in the great hall and they share a look, and he can see the way her eyes are puffy from crying. The man stands back, beside the door, and Fennorian rushes forward to meet Gwendis where she stands, shoulders shaking.

Her eyes say everything he needs to know.

Verandis isn’t coming back. Not now. Not for a long, long time, if ever.

He throws his arms over her shoulders and she pulls him in tight, nearly crushing him with the force of her desperate hug. Adusa stands behind the two of them, tail swinging slowly as she watches the two young vampires sob against each other. 

The rest of the family begins gathering from other areas of the castle. It's as though everyone feels the loss of Verandis, and together they mourn him. Soon enough, everyone is together in the great hall — Fennorian stands with this arm over Gwendis' shoulder as she rubs at her eyes. 

The Breton man explains what happened in detail that Gwendis can't, holding his bicorn hat to his chest as he speaks Verandis' name. Adusa makes a speech about Verandis’ sacrifice, how it means that they’re all protected from dangers they’d known nothing about, but it doesn’t feel like enough.

Nothing feels like it will ever be enough to make up for the loss of such an important figure in the Ravenwatch family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :')
> 
> greymoor, next.


End file.
